


Something Wicked This Way Rides

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-05 16:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18831973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: 1882, Texas.The world is changing. As man moves farther west, so does his love for destruction. John Watson has had enough of death and just wants a bit of peace after fighting in the war, but peace was never in the cards. Hell comes to his sleepy, rundown town, and with it, an enigmatic US Marshal trying to hunt down the Devil himself.---An Old West AU





	1. A Beginning

The bag pressed against his face, hot and itchy. He couldn’t see the crowd now, but he could hear them, the restless press of bodies all eager to get their sight of the cold blooded killer, the scourge of the West. All of them wanted a piece of him. His teeth could fetch a fair price, perfect, straight, odd in these parts and worth a fair bit of coin. The rest would be novelties. Hopefully his head would go somewhere interesting. The local college would certainly have a field day weighing his brain and pointing to parts of his skull: As you can see here, the divot suggests homicidal behavior; the eyes are set too deep which indicates he suffered from a serious mental condition. 

Idiots, the lot of them. 

An arm grabbed him just below the elbow and shoved him forward. He tripped on the steps, feet unsure of where one ends and the next begins. With his hands bound in front of him, he had no easy way to break his fall. His fingers smashed painfully under his weight; the step smacked him against the shoulder. Made brave by his current state, the crowd dared to chuckle; someone hurled an insult he couldn’t make out over the harsh drag of his breath and the pounding in his ears. Surely it would have cost them nothing to give him the last bit of dignity to ascend the stairs on his own, to gaze across the crowd and see a sea of faces eager for his death. What could he have possibly gained by that, other than avoid the last bit of humiliation before falling into the black oblivion? Superstition, he supposed, guides their hand; whispers of a dead man’s eyes cursing a town. The hands grabbed at him again and hauled him to his feet.

The wood creaked under his boots (those will fetch a least a few dollars, well-crafted leather, loved and cared for) and he coughed around a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of dying with his boots on. He tasted sweat, bitter and tangy, across his lips; the bag only made the stifling noon day heat worse. Too rough hands roughly brought him to a stop. Just before the rope landed heavy around his neck, he raised his face to the sky and imagined the feel the breeze across the plains caressing his cheek. The knot settled against his nape. He breathed deep and thought of riding far and fast and forever. 

“This man stands guilty of the murder of Abigail Wash, Jeremiah Crowe, Mary Jepson, Ruth Sutton, and the entire Mersiner family.” A cry rose somewhere in the ground, a lonely heartbroken sound. The wood moaned under him; the crowd whispered in anticipation; he breathed. “As stated by the courts of the fair state of Texas, he will be hung from the neck until dead.”

Hanged, he thought.

“May god have mercy on your soul, Sherlock Holmes.” The executioner’s boots thumped across the stage, for that is what it was, a play in which he would act out his final part. Perhaps he should give them a show, fight until the very last-- but no. He already gave them everything; they will get nothing more from him. These last moments he reserved for John. His John, brave and brilliant, and the way his skin had looked in the firelight. Better to think of him as he was then and not the look of rage and hurt on his face the last time he had seen him. He took one last deep breath, relished the way his chest expands until his ribs ached. This too he gave up to the memory of John. He let it out slowly, let John go with it. 

The crowd stilled, their faces upturned, eager for the final act. Despite himself, fear caught in his throat. The bag acted now as a blessing, a mask to hide the tears that threatened to leak from his eyes. 

One last ride, one last chase. 

The ground dropped out from under him and he plunged; the cheers from the crowd chased him down into the darkness.


	2. A Meeting

_Belcher, Texas 1882_

 

“Train’s comin’ in, Doc.”

John looked up from his writing and squinted. In the hot, noon day sun, Mordecai was nothing but a small black shadow on his doorstep. He stood, scooping up his Stetson and placing it on his head, before heading out the door. “It’s early.”

Trains around these parts never seemed to run on time, choosing to amble along the track like they were just as miserable as everyone else was, and that wasn’t counting having to deal with fallen trees, wandering cattle, or the occasional idiot who had read one too many dime novels and thought robbing a train was the easiest way to get rich. An early train was damn near unheard of.

“Yeah, reckon it might be on account of Josie lightin’ a fire under Ol’ Baker?” Mordecai followed after him, a skip in his step. His wide, eager grin nearly split his face in two. John briefly admired the boy’s ability of optimism, even if the train only ever delivered mail. There was always hope. Last year they had an acting troupe pass through town and they still had folks talking about the impromptu play they put on. John never had much time for plays, but for the people of Belcher, a play was a rare and wonderful occurrence.   

John shook his head. “Think Josie likes to shout just for shouting’s sake. Can’t say I see much of anything getting the trains here quicker. And it’s not like Baker has much say in it anyway. He may take care of the station, but he ain’t the one bringing the train in.”

He stepped up onto the boardwalk, boots thumping across the loose boards. The station was one of the last remnants of the booming days of the town, thrown together when it looked like Belcher was going to be the next big stop on folks’ way out west. Despite Baker’s constant work on the place, not much could be done to correct the hasty build job. It was never meant to be a permanent structure, just a stand-in until the railroad could set up things they way they wanted. The wood sagged and leaned like it too was too tired to stand up straight in the heat. Baker’s best attempts meant it kept standing, but that was about it.

Sure enough, Baker, kneeling next to a stack of boards and hammer raised in his worn, meaty fist, greeted them as they approached. “Hot today, Doc.”

 John spared him a glance, giving him a tight nod, before stretching out on his toes to watch the plume of smoke roll in. It was always hot these days. Commenting on it didn’t do much good. That was just summer in Texas: dusty and so hot it made the ground shimmer in the distance and the wind did nothing to cool you down. Bit like being breathed on by a giant beast. His Daddy would claim it was like being in the belly of Cerberus, but then his Daddy had always been the fanciful type. Probably had the right of it, though. Texas in August was a bit like glimpsing hell on earth.

He came back down on his heels with a thump. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he wiped at it with a handkerchief, knowing that it would be replaced soon enough. Salt clung to his skin and mixed with the dust blown into his face. He gave up and shoved the handkerchief back in his pocket. A lost cause if there ever was one. No amount of washing at the end of the day ever left him feeling clean.

 The train rolled in, a thunderous clank, a squeal of brakes, and the great storm cloud of steam and smoke heralding its arrival. The great old iron beast hissed as it stopped and the cars it hauled banged and shuddered as they came to a rest. John took in the line and his brow furrowed in confusion. Smaller than usual, only the mail car, one cargo car, and a passenger car making up the haul. More and more trains were choosing to divert elsewhere, but still awfully small for such a trip. As the railway expanded, there became less reason to come through Belcher, but if one did stop here, it usually was weighed down by more cars than this. Anything less was a waste of perfectly good coal and man-power.

Even as the train groaned its way to a final stop, a passenger jumped off the car and stomped his way over to cargo. His long black coat flared out behind him as he paced back and forth. He was obviously not from around these parts, because only a fool would wear something like that in this summer heat. Not that back East was all that much cooler, so perhaps the man was an idiot.

The conductor hopped down from the car and tugged out his pocket watch. With a quick glance, he shoved it back into his pocket and hastily ran down to the cargo car and smacked on the side of it. The door slid open.

With a huff of impatience, the man shoved the conductor aside and climbed his way into the car. John could already tell what kind of man this was— too pretty and clean to be running around in this town. Bet he was a bit of a tinhorn. John knew the type, had met enough of them during his own schooling days. Too educated for his own good, but maybe them long legs of his could get him out of trouble right quick.

Over the chug and hiss of the settling train, he couldn’t hear much. Tinhorn’s head popped back out of the cargo and sneered at the conductor. Even from this distance, John saw the exasperated shake of the conductor’s head as he listened to Tinhorn rant. A couple of farmhands jumped from the cargo, dusty hats already firmly in place and worn out duffles tucked under their arms, and skedaddled right quick away from the exchange. They were the usual fair that came through town-- weathered men looking for the odd job as they moved from town to town. John made note of them, but let them pass without more than a short nod. Usually, they didn’t cause no trouble, but ever so often, you got a hothead wanting to prove something. He done enough patching up and stitching on these men; better to know how much work was ahead of him then be surprised by a busted skull.

Mordecai bounced next to him. “Who ya think that is?”

“Can’t rightly say, but I am guessing he is too rich for his own good.” John scratched at a patch of dried sweat above his brow and watched the man finally emerge from the cargo car. In one hand, he held the reins of a horse, while his other hand imperiously directed a trunk being lowered to the ground. A train worker scrambled to lower a plank down for the horse to descend. Much like its owner, it gave an imperious toss of its head and proceeded down the plank with sure, trained footing. The black of the stallion matched his owner’s attire and John thought he had never seen a more perfect pairing of rider and horse: lithe, sure, and far too good for Belcher and its rundown buildings.

“Bet that coat alone cost more than my Paw makes in a year.” Mordecai eyed the fabric as if he could envision the pockets were full of coin.

John chuckled. “That and the train bringing him in definitely says he’s got more money than sense. Can’t see the train running with so few cars just to bring in a handful of farmhands. And can’t say I’ve ever met someone with a horse like that.”

As if his ears burned, Tinhorn turned suddenly and looked at the two of them. He tossed the reins of his horse to a farmhand. With a raised brow, he thundered up the platform towards them. He even walked like he owned the entire train station, John thought. He stopped just short of them. He glanced briefly at Mordecai and then dismissed him without a word, before settling his gaze on John. When he spoke, John’s spine straightened out of reflex. His voice was deep and dark like a coal mine and for a brief moment, John’s toes curled in appreciation.

“I am afraid, Doctor, that the package you are waiting on is not on this train. Given the current state of the station I just left, I would imagine that it has been delayed, mostly likely by a rather pompous and rotund rancher who kept insisting that he account for every last head of cattle before letting anyone else board the train.” 

John shook himself and fixed the man with an assessing stare. “Think you’ve got me at a disadvantage. I don’t know you, but you seem to know me.”

“On the contrary, this is the first time I have clapped eyes on you, but it’s easy enough to tell your profession by the stitching on your sleeve. Given your age, I’d also posit that you served in the war. Not Texas, no. Accent isn’t quite right for that. Too much of back east in the shape of your vowels, but not Northern, no. Ah, Virginia, I should think. A Virginian doctor in Texas. Fascinating. No wedding ring, though I suppose that would be a common occurrence for any man who works with his hands-- too many calluses and too much sun to just be a surgeon, must have a bit of land you tend to as well-- but then there is the stitching again, which tells me you don’t have anyone to do the stitching for you. You live alone. Excellent. I suppose you also have a room to let, which I will be taking. Shall we?” The man delivered the news in a rush; the quick, sharp annunciation of each word fired off like a rifle shot and reverberated in John’s bones. Satisfied, the man turned on his heel and made as to walk into town. The assumption that John would follow him was implied in the way he didn’t bother to look back.

John tensed and grabbed his arm, arresting his forward motion. “Just a minute there. I don’t know how they do things where you come from, but decency would have you at least introducing yourself and asking--” The man scoffed. “--yes, _asking_ if I have a room for you to let.”

“Fine.” He thrust his hand forward. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John took his hand like it might bite him. “John Watson.”

“Fantastic. Now that we are finished at playing niceties, there is the matter of a room. You have one. I need one. It is simple mathematics and I think--- _you will kindly keep your hand out of my pocket._ ” Holmes snatched Mordecai’s hand from his coat pocket, while still smiling too brightly at John.

“Shit, you got a badge in there!” Mordecai jerked his hand free and made a face. “You a lawman or something?”

“Or something. Luckily for you, I don’t care about pickpockets as long as they aren’t picking through my things.” Holmes fished the badge out and quickly showed it to Mordecai before tucking it away again in his breast pocket instead. It wasn’t the simple brass badge that Sheriff wore, but a star surrounded by a circle and shined to a bright silver. John caught a brief glance of the writing emblazoned on the edge: U.S. Marshal.

John shooed Mordecai away and then wiped his hands on his pants. Marshals didn’t just wander into town. If they come calling, then it was time to lock the doors and grab your rifle, because trouble might come knocking and trouble was the last thing John needed or wanted. He had enough of that for a lifetime. “All right, Marshal--”

“Just Holmes, please.”

“Holmes, I can’t offer you nothing fancy. Someone of your station--”

“I don’t require nor want the attention of a fanciful residence. Your room will do.” Holmes said the last forcefully, a glint of stubbornness in his eye.

“I do have a room you can use, but it ain’t much.” He hesitated. A lawman under his roof wasn’t something he liked. Especially not the kind who could do as he pleased and moved from town to town. “Sheriff Lestrade could put you up somewhere closer to his office. We don’t really have much in the way of boarding houses, I’m afraid. Most folks don’t stay in Belcher long.”

“I don’t need to be closer to what is sure to be incompetent local law enforcement.” Holmes waved the suggestion off and John’s subsequent bristling like an annoying fly. “Oh, don’t look like that. Most local law enforcement just gets in the way. They take to meddling like it is part of their job. No, your room will do just fine.” At that, Holmes titled his lips in an awkward impression of a smile, as if the muscles of his face were not used to such exercise.

John gave a slow nod and wished, however briefly, he had kept his gun close by.

 

 


	3. The Homestead

While John had a bed above his clinic, he didn’t like spending much time there. Belcher wasn’t big enough to warrant a doctor living in town at all times, and John mostly found himself keeping short regular hours in his office with little to do. Oh, the occasional bit of colic or creaky joint that needed more than home remedy could manage came in, but most folks in Belcher kept to themselves and that suited John just fine. If they needed him, they knew where to find him. A hasty knocking at his door sometimes woke John from restless sleep and he’d grab his bag and head out for a house call. John had spent a few long nights tending to broken legs or giving what relief he could to someone taken with consumption. He didn’t care much for those sorts of cases, because the rattle of a lung-- that bubbling, awful percolating-- sounded too much like a lung ripped open by a slug of lead. Sleep came slow enough on most nights and not at all after those cases. 

No, he much preferred staying in his cabin. It wasn’t much, but it was his, built by his own hands two years after coming to town. Before that, he had slept at his clinic, but the enticing thought of a place all his own, removed a bit from prying eyes (both well-meaning and not), called to him. Townsfolk shook their heads when he started laying the foundation. Such a small house for a town doctor and what about space for a family, they had asked. John never abused them of the notion that he would marry someday, but the years dragged heavy at his body and what once came as gentle teasing over his bachelorhood slowly turned into a sort of mourning at the thought of the poor old doctor all alone in his tiny little house. 

As he helped Holmes drag his trunk up the wooden stairs of his porch, he tried to see it through his eyes and had to tamp down a bit of shame. He hadn’t been lying when he said he it wasn’t much. Three small rooms made up the space: his bedroom, a common room for cooking and sitting, and then an even smaller guest room that saw little use. He kept an even smaller barn for his horse and to do the washing. He had no need for a larger barn to house cattle. He kept a small patch of land as a garden that met his needs and went into town or traded with the other farms for anything else. Most of his small parcel of land he let run wild and used it for hunting small game. To Holmes, with his fancy coat, and his carefully slicked hair and shined shoes, it probably looked more like a rundown hovel than a home. 

Holmes, though, kept his thoughts to himself. John showed him his room, where he shoved his trunk in a corner and threw his long coat over a peg on the wall. He stretched his long form across the bed, closed his eyes, and proceeded to ignore John’s stammer about fetching him water and a cloth to clean the road off of him. He didn’t stir once even when John filled the basin in the room with water from the outside pump, nor did he respond to John’s question about supper. 

An odd man, to be sure, but John savored the quiet. The sun had long set by the time Holmes reappeared. He stumbled into the common room as John stirred a pot of stew. His hair, once slick and pressed to his scalp, stuck up from questing fingers prying it loose. A hint of curl turned the ends of his hair up, suggesting if Holmes didn’t oil it down, it would look akin to a bird’s nest. John smiled softly at the idea of Holmes with a halo of messy curls which went so against the tight presentation he showed to the world. 

John forced his smile to recede and rapped the wooden spoon against the cast iron pot. “Can’t say it is anything fancy, but if you are hungry, I’ve got some stew and a bit of bread left over from last night’s supper.” 

Holmes stared at him with blurry eyes, then squinted at him. “We’ve known each other for less than twelve hours and so far, half of what you have said to me has been degrading yourself. You are aware I am perfectly capable of making my own judgments without your help, correct?” 

John laddled two portions into some bowls and placed it on his table. “I’ve heard all about your judgments. Figured I’d spare my ears from hearing what you had to think about me and just say it myself.” 

“Idiot.” 

“And there it is.” John hooked a stool with his foot and sat. He dug into his food without another glance at him. His skin tingled as he felt Holmes’ eyes on him as he shoved a spoonful of vegetables into his mouth. “If’n you are planning on eating with me, I got one rule: go wash up.” 

Holmes glared at him before turning on his heel and heading back into his room. John heard the sound of vigorous splashing, followed by scrubbing, before Holmes returned with dripping wet, still slightly soapy, hands. With a melodramatic flourish, he flicked his wrists, sending droplets of water this way and that. John shielded his bowl with his arm and took satisfaction as a bit of suds landed in Holmes’s bowl. John kicked the stool across from him out and gestured for him to sit, which he did with too much grace for someone with a bit of drool still crusted on the corner of his mouth. 

Holmes sighed, picked up his spoon, and fished the bubbles out of his stew, before finally deigning to take a bite. Apparently, it met with his satisfaction because he took several more bites in quick succession before schooling his manners once more. They sat in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. 

Despite himself, John’s gaze fell on Holmes’s face again and again, watching the way he chewed and the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed around each swallow. He knew better than to let his eyes wander for too long and forced himself to study the grain of the beat up table between them. Still his body betrayed him and once more he found his eyes landing on Holmes— the riotous mess of hair, the freckles along his nose and forehead that stood out against too pale skin, the delicate turn of his wrist and his hands. John recalled the swift way in which Holmes had described his own hands and John attempted to piece together Holmes’ story from the ink that stained his fingers, the burn along the back of one of his large hands, and the strange callouses along the pads of his fingers on one hand. Not the marks of hard labor, like the ones of John’s hands. No, they brought to mind his grandfather’s hands and the thick skin formed from playing his banjo, but a banjo seemed against type for the man before him. Something else then. 

“Violin,” Holmes said, jerking John from his study. 

John ducked his head and pretended to be preoccupied by his food. It had grown cold and congealed, and John shoved the bowl away. His stomach roiled unpleasantly. He had to be better about staring. He had schooled himself to keep his gaze from lingering too long, but he had been some time since anyone had been in his home and the presence of Holmes left him reeling. In his own mind, John tried to pretend that he was being cautious around Holmes, that he had to study his every move because who knew what the Marshal really wanted. But even as that part of his mind tried to form an argument against even having the man in his home, another part-- an oft forgotten and shouted down part-- whispered to him about the gentle slope of Holmes’s throat, the near perfect dip of his upper lip, the strong line of his shoulders, and the thin waist hidden under his clothes. Holmes was a surprise, an unexpected guest, but one John found fascinating all the same. Loneliness acted as a constant companion to John, a necessary one, but fate offered a chance at—well perhaps not friendship, but a sort of companionship in the time Holmes chose to stay. How sad was it of him, John thought, that he found himself clinging to a man who could ruin everything he had built in his time in Belcher? 

“You have questions, I imagine.” Holmes leaned back in his stool and surveyed John’s expression. What he saw there, John could not guess at, but a previously unknown weight had lifted from the corner of his eyes. No longer did he appear as guarded or as superior as he had before. Perhaps he saw kinship in the wrinkles that lined John’s face. 

“I would not pry into a man’s business. You are your own keeper.”

“But I am your guest and it is not prying if I allow you to ask.” 

“I suppose.” John stood and began to clean up the table. His nerves settled now that Holmes wasn’t looking him in the eye. “Where you from?”

“Originally of London, but more recently of Boston. Dull. Try something more interesting.” He snapped his fingers with impatience. 

“That thing you did at the station.”

“Hm?”

“Where you knew I was a doctor. How’d you do that?”

“Simple. I observed the way you stood, your clothes, the deference the boy showed to you. Obviously, you were someone respectable in town, but the lack of gun and badge ruled out any sort of law enforcement— thank God. Your age meant you would have been old enough to serve in the war. The stitches on your clothing I already explained.”

“You do that a lot?”

“Yes. I’d say it was part of my job, but the truth is I have been able to tell things about people, to observe the subtleties of certain situations, since I was a child.”

John suppressed a smile at the thought of a smaller version of Holmes. “Bet the other children loved that.” 

“I wouldn’t know. I avoided them like they were a plague. I attempted friendship, of course, but the average child is a dull as dishwater almost without exception. No, I kept my own counsel. Books were enough for me and my imagination was vast. The occasional adult liked to humor me, but dull children grow up into dull adults, so I have found myself without peer.” 

“Forced to crawl on your belly along the humble dirt.” 

“Or something like it.” Holmes ignored the sarcasm laced through John’s words, or perhaps he didn’t notice at all. “You do much the same. Obviously you are a learned man, worldly, if not in travel than in experience, and yet you conduct yourself in a humble manner. You play at being simple and from the moment you clapped eyes on me, you resented that I didn’t try to hide who I am. What can we make of that?” 

“Ain’t nothing to make of it.” John studied the grain of the floorboards under his feet, but kept his body tense and watched Holmes out of the corner of his eye. He forced a calm to take over his muscles. Deep breath, in and out, easy as lining up a shot. “You can blame it on my upbringing.” 

Holmes rolled his eyes. “Yes, I am sure your devout upbringing taught you all about how to remain humble and dull. Something boring, like Baptist.” He glanced around the room and landed on the Bible on John’s shelf. “Ah, of course. Your father was a preacher. Did he put the fear of the fiery gates of Hell in you as well?” 

“Didn’t have to. I learned it just from living.” 

“Hmmm, yes. I rather think you did.” 

John just barely hid his flinch. What else did Holmes know about him? What had he figured out but hadn’t yet said? He quickly moved the conversation away from Holmes’s need to pick away at his life. The less Holmes knew of him, the better “So you got involved with the law? Hard to imagine you finding a peer there, what with the way you talked about our sheriff, whom you haven’t even met.” 

Holmes shrugged. “Not my first choice of work, but one I take to well. A duck to water, I imagine some would say. You almost asked the right question that time.”

John swallowed hard and set aside the rag he had been dragging over and over across the counter. His hand shook and he grabbed the edge of the counter to keep it from quaking. His index finger barely brushed the knife sitting there and he edged it a bit closer to his hand. He prided himself on the steadiness of his voice once he finally forced the question passed his lips. “Why are you in Belcher?” 

“I’m chasing a murderer and I believe this town is where I will find him.”


	4. Starlight Confessional

John forced himself to meet his eyes. If John were to be brought in now, after all this time, then he’d do it on his feet and with his head held high. “A murderer? Can’t say we get much action around these parts. Despite what you may hear back east, it ain’t all shootouts and gangs fighting over territory.” 

Holmes smiled. “If I wanted the usual wickedness, I’d go to Dodge. They have plenty to spare. No, I am looking for someone in particular, someone truly fascinating. A murderer who has been hiding in our midst for some time.” 

John clenched his fist behind his back. The knife he had been cutting bread with was just within reach and it would be easy enough to-- no, no. He’d done enough running. “You got a name for this murderer?” 

Holmes flicked his eyes up and down, studying his stance. He leaned back and gestured openly with his hands, neck and arms bare and oddly trusting. Despite his stance, his eyes glinted in the lamp light and the shadows cast across his face spoke of a coiled readiness, a cougar ready to pounce. “I do not. And whatever it is you’ve done, Doctor, I’m not here for you.” 

John cursed himself and forced each of his muscles to unclench. He had played his hand and been called out. He slowly mimicked Holmes’s stance, showing his hands were empty. “Can’t say I rightly know what you are talking about.” 

“I think you very much do, but I am not interested in bringing in a man who saves lives and is well-liked by his town.” 

“You seem awful sure of that.” 

“Again, I observed. If you were truly on the run, you would have never settled your roots so deeply here. No, whatever you did was far enough in the past that you think you are safe now, or did until I forced my way into your home. The town’s people respect your work. The bread we had wasn’t made by you, but by a patient you saved. The quilt over your chair next to your fireplace? Another gift. You don’t take visitors often, that much is true, but those that do come calling are here with purpose and they always bring gifts.” 

John scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Could still be playing you.” 

“Perhaps, if it weren’t for your rifle. Over the fireplace and not propped up next to the door or within arm’s reach at all times? No sign of a pistol, which would be more likely for someone who may need a gun at hand. If you have one, it is most certainly in your room, probably on your nightstand. I did not take you for a fool, so this tells me again, you aren’t someone looking for trouble and you have no interest in killing me. What you truly want is peace of mind, so again, I will give it to you: I am not here for you and I do not care what you have done. Whatever it was, it was justified.” 

John snorted. “Killing never is.” 

“Even you don’t believe that. Not truly. But you are a man of integrity and believe that killing should never be done lightly. The man you murdered-- and I believe you only did it the once-- has haunted you for years. It terrified you, how easy it is to kill someone, but then you already knew that humans were fragile creatures and so easy to break after your time in the war. A skull is too much like an egg, thin as paper in certain places and just as easy to crack open. A human gut gives way under a blade just like a pig’s does. Flesh and bone are, with the right pressure and a sharp enough saw, are just like hacking at a side of--”

John slammed his hand against the table, rattling the lantern placed there. His chest heaved and the roar inside his throat ripped out of him. “Enough! What would you know of it? You are a child, a child masquerading as a man. You know nothing of what it was like!” 

“I don’t, but you just proved my point. No, you’re not the man I am looking for, Doctor, and despite what you may think of yourself, you are not a killer.” He studied John’s face and the hard lines of anger and grief etched there and then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Forgive me for pushing.” 

John turned on his heel and stormed out into the rapidly cooling night air. The bit of dinner in his stomach rebelled and he bent over in the bushes. Acid coated his throat and the tired muscles of his abdomen jumped and spasmed. He swallowed around the saliva filling his mouth, but with one last wave of nausea, he gave up the fight. He had eaten little that day and what came up was watery thin and burned his sinuses. Tears came unbidden to his eyes as he heaved and heaved again. A dull roar filled his ears and dark spots danced across his vision. His legs gave way and he caught himself before he landed in his own sick. He scooted backwards in the tall grass and forced himself to breathe around the sudden terror clutching at his chest. He took another deep breath and another. 

A lone coyote barked and wailed in the distance. John focused on the sound, so different from anything he heard in the war, so different from anything back home. From the stable, Atropos whinnied and stomped, disquieted by the long, lonesome sound. He stood, then, and headed towards the stable. She’d be hungry by now and still needed a brushing down. Usually he would have done it by now, but Holmes had filled his head and thrown off his usually rigid schedule. 

He opened the stable door and felt along the wall until he found the lantern he kept there. The matches tumbled from his hand when he pulled them from his pocket and grit his teeth around the need to scream in frustration. Another slow breath steadied him and, with still shaking hands, he lit the lantern and hung it back on its hook. 

Atropos glared at him from her stall and threw her white and gray mane in irritation. He shushed her, and looped the rope around her neck before gently pulling her closer to the light. She came willingly enough, seeming to forget her annoyance with him and offered a shove at his shoulder with her muzzle. He ran a hand along her bald marking in acknowledgement; the white of it stood out all the more against her dark coat in the half-light offered by the lantern. She nudged past him and nosed her way into the trough, even as he tried to fill it. Holmes’s horse watched impassively from his own stall and John turned his back to it. Something about its dark eyes felt too much like being watched by the man itself. That horse was too smart for its own good. Atropos stamped her hoof to gain his attention. Rarely did she have to share the space with another horse and she made her displeasure known to John.

“All right, you menace.” He shook his head and picked up the brush. Her white tail flicked at him once, catching him across the face as if to prove one final point, and then she turned back to eating. He brought the brush up and let his mind focus on the sole task of cleaning and rubbing down her coat. The paint of her, a deep dark brown and white, shone under his hand as he ran the bristles slowly over her flank. 

He lost track of time as he tended to her. The motion of caring for his horse were second nature to him and sometimes, like now, easier than breathing. Once finished, he rested his forehead against her shoulder and inhaled the deep, rich scent of earth and animal. She stilled under his head, and gave a soft huff in acknowledgment. Behind him the stable door slowly creaked open. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was. 

Holmes came to stand next to him and offered a tin cup with water in it to him. John took it with a silent nod of thanks and drank. The water was warm and tasted of metal, but it washed the last remains of sick from his mouth and he drank greedily. Holmes stepped away from him and began to tend to his own horse. John gave Atropos a scratch when she whinnied in irritation at having to share the trough with another horse. She quieted and the two of them watched their guests warily. 

Holmes moved with the confidence of someone used to being around horses, which came as little surprise after watching the way he moved while riding to John’s home. His body moved in rhythm with the horse, hips rocking gently as his back and shoulders stayed straight. He didn’t bounce like some idiot from the city, but moved his body as if he was meant to be on a horse. But he also didn’t sit like someone who spent their time on a horse out of necessity. No, his saddle looked different, too. John had only ever seen an English saddle around officers in the war, but it was just another thing that added credence to the thought that Holmes had grown up with wealth. He rode for hobby and sport, not because he had to. 

“You were right, of course.” Holmes interrupted his thoughts, though did not look up from where he rubbed down his horse. “I didn’t serve in the war. I was twenty by the time I came to the states and by then the war was over. I tended school and read books while I imagine you fought in the war and watched men die. I grew up wanting for little. So in that regard, I suppose, yes, I am a child. I am not without experience and I have known hardship, but mine would look a good deal different from your own, I imagine.” 

John paused in his brushing and stared without seeing at the back of his horse’s neck. He let the apology sit for a moment in silence, while he gathered his thoughts. Conversation did not come easily to him, but Holmes deserved more than his silence. “I never should have yelled at you. It wasn’t right.” 

“Right or wrong, it is what it is, but I stand by what I said. No man who reacts like that, who flinches at the thought of talking like men are nothing more than animals to be slaughtered, could ever be a cold blooded killer. My means were cruel, but my findings are still sound.” He looked at John then, and though his voice gave nothing away, his eyes showed sadness and regret. This more than his words put John’s mind at ease. 

“You see an awful lot.” 

“I do. That and my inability at times to keep my mouth from running ahead are a curse, or so my parents often claimed.” 

John shook his head, laughing softly, and led Atropos back to her stall. She settled with little fuss and Holmes followed with his own horse. John took the lamp down from his hook and led them back to the cabin. The night had grown dark and the moon, a thin slice in the sky, gave little light. 

The stars stretched out above them and John paused and looked up at them. Texas stretched out forever around him, flat and empty, so different from the hills and mountains from home. At times, he felt like the entire sky would swallow him whole and the thought gave him a strange sort of solace. He was a tiny speck, all things considered. Insignificant and alone. Holmes paused next to him and looked up at the sky with him. 

“Not sure how anyone can stand to look up and see this many stars.” Holmes gave a small shiver. 

“Suppose you can’t see as many in London.” 

“No. The city surrounds you and even on clear nights, which are rare, the smoke from the stacks obscures much of it. It’s never quiet like this, either. Always bustling, buzzing, thriving, like a great terrible heart beating away. Boston is similar, but London will always be home.” 

“All those people, all that noise...Sounds stifling.” 

“It’s wonderful. Nothing compares to it.” 

John lowered his gaze from the sky and saw Holmes watching him. “You must hate it out here, then. All this space and nothing to keep your attention.” 

Holmes hummed softly and tilted his head in consideration. “I am finding some things aren’t as bad. Surprising, even.”

“I’m amazed you can be surprised by anything.” 

“Yes, well.” Holmes’s lips twisted prettily, as his cheeks dusted pink. Starlight suited him, John thought, and for the first time he realized how young Holmes was. A grown man, to be sure, but in the moonlight, he looked far younger than John’s own forty-eight years-- young in a way that John wasn’t sure he had ever been. “It’s rare, but upon occasion I am pleasantly surprised.” 

“The man I--” The words caught in John’s throat; his teeth clenched. Say it, you coward. “The man I killed. It wasn’t during the war, ‘bout as far from a battlefield as you could get.” 

“Do you regret it?”

“A day don’t go by that I don’t think of it.”

“If you could change it, undo what you did, would you?” 

The light from his lantern flickered. John closed the shutter on it. He couldn’t say the next part with Holmes looking at him with those strange, all-seeing eyes. Confessions like this were made for darkness and it settled like a cloak over them. Holmes made no move to stop him from putting out the light. Instead he looked over the plain and patiently waited for John’s answer. Slowly, their breathing matched, a deep in and out that filled the silence between them. 

“No, no, I wouldn’t change it. Maybe I would have killed the bastard faster, but I’d still kill him.” With such a confession, surely the gates of Hell would swallow him whole, but they didn’t. The earth stayed solid, the crickets continued their chorus, and the stars kept their lonely trek across the open sky. 

“Thank you. You didn’t have to tell me that much, but I appreciate your honesty all the same.” 

John’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The sweat on his neck chilled him. “And the rest of it?” 

“The rest of it is your own to keep. Perhaps you will tell it to me someday, but you do not owe me it.” Holmes reached out and hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder. His wide palm engulfed his shoulder and it lingered there before he gave him a squeeze and turned towards the cabin door. “Good night, Watson.” 

The door shut behind him. John closed his eyes and saw blood and a woman’s face frozen in terror. If he lost himself in the memory, he could hear her begging him and the death rattle of a man dying under his hands. He shuddered. 

“Good night, Sherlock,” he whispered out into the darkness.


	5. A Fruitless Hunt

Sleep eluded him. It came in starts and stops, half-broken and useless. Dreams ripped through him on the heavy beat of rushing horse hooves. Gunshots and cannon fire melded with the everyday. Mordecai, with half his face missing, smiled up at him. His mouth opened and the shriek of a dying horse rose from his small chest. The image changed again into his Mama beckoning him up onto her porch, only for the wood to give way under his feet and plunge him down deep into a bottomless cave. In the darkness, he heard only death. 

And always, just out of the corner of his eye, was Esther, grey eyes silent and face too pale. 

When the sun rose, he greeted it with too heavy eyes lined red with exhaustion. He stumbled, limp heavy, through dressing and splashing cold water on his face, before heading into the kitchen. He gathered the last few eggs he had and cracked them into a skillet and willed the coffee to get hot faster. 

He steadfastly did not look over at the guest bedroom door. Holmes stayed shut up in the room even as John shoveled eggs onto a plate and the smell of coffee filled the cabin. His Mama taught him better than to ignore a guest, but John stubbornly shoved a spoonful of eggs into his mouth and chased it with bitter, scalding coffee. Last night had left him off kilter. Every time he thought he could breathe, Holmes would say something new that left him gasping, grasping desperately for stability. How could one man could stir up in him long buried feelings-- both good and bad? Part of him wanted to grab him by the lapels and punch him. The other part. Well, he didn’t let himself indulge in that. Hadn’t in well over a decade. 

No, he could do with a few more hours without Holmes picking him apart and confusing his emotions. He hastily scrawled a note and left it on the mantle before grabbing Atropos and riding into town. It was still early yet. Belcher was slow to wake and John passed few folks on his way to his clinic. He hitched Atropos on the post out front, gave her a pat, and went inside. 

The day crawled. He organized than reorganized his few medical books, swept the already clean floor, and fixed a squeaky floorboard. By noon, he was contemplating a midday nap in an attempt to get away from the heat and the headache which blossomed horribly behind his right eye. 

A knock on his open door finally broke the monotony. Sheriff Lestrade leaned against the door frame and tipped his hat back. 

“Hear we got ourselves a visitor.” 

“Mordecai’s been spreading the news, has he?” 

“Not like we get a lot of folk dressed like that coming into town. Between Mordecai and Baker, half the town and the surrounding farms know about him by now. Would have been nice if you had let me know he was a Marshal, instead of me having to hear it from Abigail who heard it from Joseph who heard it from Baker.” 

“Not like I was trying to keep it a secret from you. I only just met him and he was determined to get his things settled before he talked to anyone in town. I’m sure he’ll come by today and introduce himself.” 

“See that he does, would you? What is he doing out here anyway? Met a few Rangers in my time, but can’t say I run into any of these Marshal types.” Lestrade busied himself with a cigarette and ignored the frown on John’s face as he lit it. 

“Said he was hunting someone, but he didn’t say who.” 

Lestrade blew smoke through his nose and shook his head. “Just what this town needs.” 

John couldn’t disagree with him. Belcher had its own problems. It wasn’t Dodge City, with all its violence and corruption, but Belcher had an angry history to it just the same. Towns like Belcher didn’t rise and then spectacularly fail without stepping on toes and leaving people bitter. The rich folks moved on, but the poor people who came out here for the promise of a job were left stuck: nothing to build on and nothing to move to. That bitterness had left the townsfolk distrustful of people who came into town, especially someone who thought they knew the right of things. If Holmes hoped to get any help in town, he’d be hard pressed to find it. The townsfolk would take one look at his shined shoes and school boy accent and slam the door on his face. Belcher wasn’t an unwelcoming town, but it was slow to trust outsiders. John had found that out firsthand. 

Lestrade bid him a good afternoon and headed out to make his rounds. Like John, he often found his days long and empty. A drunken brawl every Friday night was the extent of the excitement his jail cells saw. 

Shortly after, Holmes bounded into his office. His long black coat was missing, obviously forgone for a simple vest and lighter jacket. The heat brought out color on his pale face, marking his cheeks too red. His hair, so carefully combed and oiled yesterday, pressed against his scalp from sweat instead. He swayed and caught himself on John’s desk, righting himself from planting face first onto the unforgiving wood. 

“Good lord, Holmes, what have you been doing?” John stood quickly and helped him into a chair. He carefully unbuttoned the top few buttons of Holmes’s shirt and removed his jacket. Holmes fought him briefly, but finally went limp in the chair giving into John’s brisk ministrations. John fetched a pitcher and glass and forced him to drink. While Holmes reluctantly brought the glass to his lips, John took his pulse. His heartbeat jumped and sprinted like a jackrabbit’s under John’s fingers. 

“I may have miscalculated the heat here,” Holmes croaked. 

“I can see that.” John dipped his handkerchief in the pitcher and pressed the wet cloth to the back of Holmes’s neck. Heat raised off his skin in waves. “What on earth could you have been doing in this heat?” 

“I was trying to get to know the lay of the land.”

John leaned away from him and glanced out the door. “Where is your horse?” 

“I left it back at your house.” 

“You walked from my house to town in the middle of a summer day in Texas.” 

“Yes. Again, I fear I miscalculated. Why is it so bloody hot here and why would anyone choose to live in such a godforsaken place?” 

John laughed. The sound startled him, but as it ripped from his belly, he found he could not contain it. Holmes with all his proper clothes and accent looked like a wilted flower. His shirt clung to him and the once pristine black of his vest was now stained with sweat. “Most people have a bit more common sense. You don’t work in the middle of the day here, not outside at any rate. And if you have to, you certainly don’t do it without a hat.” 

Holmes scowled at him. “I don’t do hats.” 

“Then you are going to be right miserable here.” 

“I assure you it wouldn’t have been nearly so bad if I hadn’t had to wait for your long winded Sheriff to finally leave.” 

“You were outside that entire time. Were you waiting in the bushes?” John chuckled again at the thought of Holmes, wilted and disgusting, hiding among the brambles. 

“Don’t be ridiculous; I waited across the road in the shade. And stop that laughing!” Holmes removed the cloth from the back of his neck and tossed it at John’s face. 

John easily caught it and threw it on his desk. “Well, serves you right. You should’ve come over and properly introduced yourself instead of skulking like a robber across the way.”

“Tedious.” Holmes unbuttoned another button on his shirt and tugged at the sweat drenched cloth. It stuck to his neck and chest and John turned his gaze quickly to cleaning his desk of imagined detritus. 

“So what do I owe the pleasure of your sudden company?” John wiped at his desk, chancing a brief glance at him. 

Holmes sprawled, his long legs taking up twice the space they should as if everything about him needed to occupy every available square inch of John’s small life. “I need to get to know the town. If I am to understand where the killer--” John winced-- “will strike, I need to understand the lay of the land.” 

“What makes you so certain he will come here? Belcher is barely a mark on anyone’s map. The only people who come here are cattle hands and people moving on to other, better places. As far as I know, we’ve never had a murder. A few bar brawls gotten out of hand, sure, but nothing like what you’ve been hinting at.”

“Strange things happen in small towns. But no, the murderer isn’t here yet, but they will be and they will take advantage of this small town, with its spaced out farms and its big empty space, to hide and do something truly gruesome and your sheriff will bungle the entire investigation because he won’t have seen anything like this before and he will blame it on someone-- someone easily forgettable, someone not from this town-- and will pat himself on the back for a job well done while the killer moves on. And that is how this killer works--and it has worked for him, several times now. He knows how local law enforcement think and knows that they don’t talk to each other, not out here where towns are spaced out and you have to wait on a train to come through in order to get mail. Oh, they will send a telegraph, but no one else wants to think about someone coming to their town to wreak havoc and besides, if they put the away the killer, so case solved.” 

“And how do you know that they are connected it all?” 

Holmes waved a hand. “Easily. Same method of killing. Possibly the very same weapon, though that has been harder to prove. The killer has gotten bolder, though, more people, closer together and I fear that he has got a taste for it. It is going to get far worse than it has already.” 

“And me showing you the town will help you catch this madman?” 

“Intensely.” 

John grabbed his hat and shoved it onto Holmes’s head. “Then let’s get started, but first, let’s get your damn horse.”

Atropos didn’t take kindly to the weight of two grown men on her back, but bore it in the same grudging way she did most things. John tried not to think too hard about the feel of Holmes’s thighs tucked up behind his or the way the man leaned into him occasionally to ask a question. John blamed the sweat collecting in the small of his back on the noon day heat, but couldn’t as easily explain away the curl of want that tingled low in his stomach each time Holmes rocked his hips with the sway of the horse. 

By the time they reached his house, John nearly threw himself off his horse to get away of the feel of Holmes pressed along his back. He busied himself with making sure Atropos got her fill of water while Holmes saw to his own horse and tried to banish the thought of Holmes’s long hand slowly rubbing along the crest of his hip before dipping downwards to take John fully in hand. His imagination clung to the thought like a hungry dog with a bone; John was only saved from full embarrassment by the blessing of Holmes now climbing up onto his own saddle. 

Poe perhaps had the right of it. The damned little imp on John’s shoulder was begging him to do something mighty perverse. 

Holmes, oblivious to the war boiling inside of John, spun his horse and took off, like the horn of a great hunt had been blown. John scrambled to keep up with him. The two of them rode around and through town and out past the farms, the path known only to Holmes. John sat back in his saddle and watched as Holmes scanned the horizon, asked questions of reticent residents, and randomly hopped off his horse to stare at the only the Lord knew what on the ground. 

As the day settled into dusk, Holmes grew frustrated. He doubled back and then again, glaring at each rock that dare set itself in his path. He ordered John to climb up embankments and look at seemingly nothing. John finally put his foot down at being ordered to climb a tree. 

“Me breaking my neck is going to help you catch a killer how exactly?” John fought back a yawn. “Not like we can see anything at this point anyway. Getting too dark to keep looking.” 

Holmes opened his mouth to argue, only to have a yawn overcome him. Betrayal at his own body flitted across his face and John laughed softly. 

“C’mon. We can keep looking tomorrow. Whatever it is you are looking for, it’ll keep.” 

“Because killers are known for keeping daylight hours.” 

“Fair enough, but doctors do keep them or at least try to.” 

“Then go home. I’m not keeping you here. I can see just fine in the dark and I’ll be able to move all the faster without you constantly asking questions.” 

John sighed and looked up at the sky. Not even God could grant him enough strength, he thought. “Fine. But when I have to come fetch you in the morning because you got lost, I want you to remember this moment.” 

Holmes scowled at him, before turning his horse and trotting off in the opposite direction. 

John shook his head and rode back in silence. When he finally returned home, he gave himself a perfunctory wash, ate a cold dinner, and fell into a thankfully deep and dreamless sleep. 

Holmes didn’t return during the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, the next chapter we will be getting into the dark and gritty bits. They are hunting a killer and the deaths will be gruesome. I will make every attempt to tag appropriately, but if I miss something, please let me know.


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